


Guess Who's Coming to Mordor

by avantegarda



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Humor, anyway, bless him, did i yoink the name of this fic from guess who's coming to dinner?, maglor is the grumpy theatre uncle of the friend group, you bet your boots i did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-12-24 11:54:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 7,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: Being a series of snippets from the timeline in which Maglor son of Feanor, infamous First Age war criminal, joins the Fellowship of the Ring.





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I know by this point that my place in the Tolkien fandom is to make ridiculous AUs no one asked for. This can be directly traced to a [silly post](https://avantegarda.tumblr.com/post/185481243317/some-gorgeous-person-a-while-back-made-a-post/html/) I made a while back about Maglor joining the Fellowship and it spiralled absolutely out of control, as such things do. Here we are. Please enjoy this on-fire garbage can.

_Ten miles south of Rivendell_

_Shortly before Gandalf pays an eventful visit to a colleague_

The person sitting on the stump, wrapped in a tattered gray cloak and holding a tattered satchel, hardly cut an impressive figure. They could have been anyone, really; male or female, elf or human (though they were considerably too tall to be a hobbit or dwarf, and a bit too clean to be an orc). Gandalf, however, had a hunch, and so he took a cautious step forward and cleared his throat.

The figure jumped slightly and turned to face him, surprise and caution on his face. Gandalf took in his appearance: high cheekbones, curly dark hair, silvery eyes that looked as though they had seen entirely too much. And, revealed when he lifted a hand to push back his hood, one dark scar across his palm.

This was the one, all right.

“Maglor Feanorion. How nice to finally find you. It certainly was a difficult task.”

“Yes, well. That’s rather the point.” Maglor frowned at him, a hint of recognition in his eyes. “Now, wait a moment. I know you. Olorin, isn’t it? Or, no. What are they calling you these days?”

“Mithrandir will do.”

“Mithrandir, then. What exactly do you want from me?”

Gandalf smirked. “Would you believe me if I said I was looking for someone to share in an adventure I was arranging?”

“I would not. Doesn’t quite seem like my kind of thing, you know.”

“Well, you are not the first person I’ve heard that from. All right, then, perhaps not. The arranging is not exactly mine to do, this time. But perhaps you’ll believe me if I say that I think Elrond may be requiring your help soon.”

“Elrond?” Maglor shook his head. “I haven’t seen him in centuries. Why would he need me for anything? Why would anyone, for that matter?”

“Because I believe we may soon be facing extraordinary evil,” Gandalf said. “And when fighting against extraordinary evil, it does help to have an extraordinary person or two helping out.”

“Usually, you know,” Maglor said thoughtfully, “I’m the extraordinary evil people are fighting against.”

“Nonsense, no one with any sense could ever have called you _extraordinarily _evil. But that’s besides the point. Will you go to Imladris, and talk to Elrond?”

Maglor tilted his head to the side. “And what’s in it for me, Mithrandir? If I end three ages of well-deserved isolation to help you fight this extraordinary evil, what do I get?”

“Redemption,” said Gandalf. “Redemption in the eyes of your son, the free peoples of Middle-Earth, and quite possibly the Valar themselves. I think that might be worth something to you, is it not?”

“Hmm.” Maglor contemplated this for a moment, then decisively stood, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. “Call it redemption and a hot meal and I’ll consider it. I’m bloody _starving _out here.”


	2. Unimpressed

First impressions were clearly unreliable; Elrond had originally seemed like a very sensible sort of person, and yet Frodo was beginning to suspect the lord of Rivendell was quite mad. Of course it made sense for an Elf to come along on the quest—it was only fair, after all—but was it necessary for Elrond to choose _this _one? Surely Glorfindel, or that prince from Mirkwood, or _anyone _really, would have been a better choice than the quiet dark-haired man Elrond had introduced, inexplicably, as his father.

Father, indeed. Frodo knew his history as well as anyone, and he recognized the name Maglor straightaway. 

“I know who you are, you know,” Frodo told him, the first time they were alone together. It was the night before the company was scheduled to leave, and Frodo felt it was high time he got everything out in the open.

“Well, that’s hardly surprising, considering we were just introduced,” Maglor replied. Even when speaking quietly, his voice had an otherworldly quality Frodo found distinctly unsettling. “I’d go so far as to say I know who you are as well.”

“No, I mean I k_now who you are_. Perhaps you think we don’t learn history in the Shire, but Bilbo’s told me all about the First Age, and I know exactly what you and your family did. Everything.”

“Ah.” Maglor’s expression was unreadable. “Then perhaps you also know that I have spent the last two ages punishing myself for my family’s deeds.”

“By wandering about on the beach and moping?”

“That, and other things as well. Looking after orphans, fighting a few orcs—I haven’t been entirely idle, you know.”

“That’s as may be,” Frodo said skeptically. “But I’d still like to know why you agreed to come on this mission. I know you and Lord Elrond are…family, but it can’t be just as a favor to him. And I find it hard to believe your motives are completely altruistic.”

Maglor leaned back in his chair, tapping his long, elegant fingers together. “The truth, then?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“The truth, Mr. Baggins, is that I am _tired_.”

Frodo blinked. “Tired?”

“Indeed. Quite unfathomably exhausted. I’ve spent the last 6,000 years wandering from place to place, never resting, never feeling that I am doing enough to make up for my past. This quest we are going on? This may be my last chance to do something genuinely good.” For a moment, he looked as though he was about to cry. “The truth is, Mr. Baggins, this may be my last chance to find a way home.”

Oddly, Frodo felt a spark of sympathy for this strange creature, separated from his home and family since before the sun and moon had first risen. What would it be like to be away from the Shire for that long? 

Well, he was soon to find out, he supposed.

“I understand that,” he said at last. “But how do I know I can trust you, around something as dangerous as…as what I am carrying?”

Maglor smiled, the first time Frodo had seen him do so. It was a surprisingly nice, though sad, smile. “Mr. Baggins, I threw one of the most valuable objects ever created into the ocean. I think I can manage to help you throw Sauron’s bloody trinket into a mountain.”


	3. Ultimatum

“I was hoping I would find you here,” said Glorfindel, his usual good cheer rather subdued. “I wanted to have a chance to speak with you before you left.”

Maglor spread his arms. “And here I am. What exactly were you hoping to discuss?”

“Elrond, of course. What else? It’s hardly as though we have anything else in common.”

“Fair enough. But wait just a moment before you start,” Maglor added as Glorfindel opened his mouth to speak. “I would like to see how much of this conversation I can predict, just to save time. Let me guess: you don’t trust me, which is understandable, and you’d like to warn me that if I put one toe out of line you will personally track me down and break every one of my fingers. Am I correct?”

“Well, not entirely.” Glorfindel frowned. “Is breaking your fingers really the worst punishment you can imagine?”

Maglor shrugged. “That or cutting out my tongue, but I assume you’re too civilized for the latter.”

“Hm. Well, you’re certainly correct that it is difficult to trust you, and I would be happier if you refrained from putting any toes out of line. However, that’s not precisely why I’m here. Do you by any chance remember your cousin Idril?”

“Yes, a bit, though I’m not sure how she factors into this. Clever little girl, never wore shoes.”

“Precisely. And in addition to those fine qualities, she is my second cousin and a very dear friend–practically a sister to me. I made a promise to protect her and her family for as long as they needed me. Well, Idril is in Valinor and Earendil is far beyond needing any protection. Which means I am now tasked with with protecting Elrond.” Glorfindel leaned forward and laced his fingers together, face solemn. “I will be very blunt with you, Maglor. Elrond has lost nearly everyone he loves. His parents, you and your brother, Gil-Galad, Celebrian…and as much as he tries to hide it, that pain is deep. So I have a task for you. _Come back.”_

Maglor blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“I know you have a tendency to disappear, for whatever melodramatic reason you tell yourself. But this is different. If at the end of this quest, you fail to come back (and it isn’t because you’ve died), if I hear you’ve abandoned your son again, I _will _track you down, and I _will_ break your fingers, and cut out your tongue, and shave your head. Are we clear?”

Maglor nodded, only a hint of red in his cheeks disturbing his composure. “Crystal clear, my boy. Crystal clear.”


	4. Family

“And the Star of the House of Feanor,” said Gandalf. “They are wrought of _ithildin, _that…”

“I’m sorry. The _what_?”

Gandalf turned to face Maglor, who had suddenly gone very pale. “The Star of Feanor,” he said gently. “You didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know what?” Pippin whispered, to no one in particular.

Maglor, of course, heard him. “That star is my family’s sigil, Mr. Took,” he said. “The Star of Feanor, as Gandalf said.”

“I’ve seen that star before,” Merry put in. “In Rivendell. Didn’t realize it had anything to do with your family, though.”

“Yes, well. Elrond has a surprising amount of loyalty to my family, for reasons I still do not entirely understand. My nephew, Celebrimbor, though…” Maglor turned back to wistfully gaze at the doors. “He was my brother Curufin’s son. And an absolutely brilliant lad, just like his father and grandfather. But Celebrimbor…he quarreled with Curufin, and cut ties with the family.” 

“Did you ever see him again?” Frodo asked quietly. 

“Oh, I saw him a few times. Once or twice during my wanderings I visited Eregion and saw him from a distance. He seemed…happy. But I didn’t speak to him. I knew he wouldn’t want to be reminded. Of any of us.”

Gandalf looked at the glowing star-shaped sigil with a fond smile. “It seems you weren’t entirely correct about that. One doesn’t put the Star of Feanor on the gate to Moria if one wants to entirely forget their family.”

“No,” whispered Maglor. “I suppose one doesn’t.” He stared down at the ground thoughtfully for a moment, before clapping his hands together triumphantly. “I’ve got it! The password, that is. I have an idea.”

“I suppose at this point any ideas are welcome, regardless of how ridiculous,” Gimli grumbled. Thus far on the journey, he’d made no secret that he strongly disapproved of Maglor, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. “Go on, then, impress us.”

“Celebrimbor was a Feanorian,” Maglor said, smiling broadly. “And that means sharp wits, occasional unhealthy ambition, and _puns_.” He strode confidently to the door and declared, in loud and clear tones, “_Mellon.”_


	5. Bad Blood

That the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien were not pleased was a significant understatement. Indeed, as Lady Galadriel inspected the final member of the Company, she looked as though she were about to burst into flames of rage.

“Maglor Feanorion,” she said, face grim. “You have no right to be here. Do you think we in the Golden Wood have forgotten your family’s crimes? I am aware, of course, of Elrond’s loyalty to you, but I am surprised he allowed sentiment to cloud his good judgement this time. Surely he must have known that permitting a kinslayer to join this company would result in you and your companions being barred from my lands.”

“Oh, come off it, Artanis,” Maglor said calmly.

There was a collective intake of breath from every person in the room, the Fellowship included, and Lady Galadriel stared at her cousin, eyes wide in shock. “I beg your pardon?” she sputtered.

“I said, come off it,” Maglor replied, rolling his eyes. “Do you really mean to throw the entire Fellowship, the people who are actively trying to destroy Sauron’s only chance of returning to full power, out of your forest just because of your grudge against my side of the family? For things that happened nearly three Ages ago, might I mention. Honestly, cousin, I know you were close to Thingol and Melian but you needn’t follow their school of thought so completely. You’ll be banning Quenya next, I expect.”

Lady Galadriel’s calm, regal face flushed faintly pink, and her jaw tightened. “How _dare _you speak to me that way after everything you have done, you horrid, idiotic, melodramatic _brat_.”

Maglor let out a harsh laugh. “A brat, am I? I like that, coming from my darling baby cousin Artanis who burped up on my finest jacket when she was an infant and who followed me around begging me to sing her lullabies, and who remains convinced that she alone knows the correct way to do absolutely everything. But family history aside, the fact remains that spite and grudges aren’t going to get us any closer to winning this war. What do you say, old girl; shall we let bygones be bygones, for the sake of my companions who are innocent in all this?”

The two elves eyed each other intently, neither of them moving, both of their gazes so intense the very air between them seemed to shimmer. Finally, Galadriel let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Very well,” she said. “_Fine_. For the sake of the quest, then, I will permit you to remain here. But your companions are not to let you out of their sight, and if you show any sign of causing the least bit of trouble I will hang you upside-down in a tree for a week.” She stepped closer, whispering in her cousin’s ear just loud enough for the rest of the Fellowship to overhear her. “And _stay away from my bloody mirror_.”


	6. Parenthood

“You seem to have done fairly well for yourself, old girl,” Maglor remarked, glancing admiringly around the airy sitting room. “I suppose that’s one good thing about marrying a Sindarin prince, they do know their way around a tree.” Galadriel scowled at him, and Maglor rolled his eyes. “Oh come now, Artanis, you know I’m joking.”

“It’s Galadriel now, as I have explained many times. And I assure you Celeborn is an excellent husband and leader in every measurable way.”

“And yet I’m afraid that to me you will _always _be my baby cousin Artanis. Odd to think of you being married. And being a _mother, _at that.”

Galadriel’s shoulders stiffened. “Yes, well. I can’t say I feel like much of a mother these days.”

“Oh, Artanis…Galadriel. I’m sorry,” Maglor said, voice softer this time. “I did hear about what happened to your poor daughter. It’s not something any parent should have to go through. I remember, when Elrond and Elros left…”

“Stop,” Galadriel said. “Just stop. Are you trying to pretend you _understand? _That you know what it’s like to lose a child? Elrond and Elros weren’t yours, they were two lost children you kidnapped and used as political pawns. Celebrian is my daughter, my flesh and blood, and now who knows when I will be able to see her again? Don’t pretend you know a mother’s pain, Maglor. You never will.”

Maglor sighed heavily. “No. In a way I suppose you’re right. The twins weren’t mine, and the circumstances in which they came into my life were…less than ideal. But I loved them nonetheless. I still do. And it hurt like hell to give them up, Artanis, even if it was what was best for them.”

“Best for them…” Galadriel repeated quietly. “Yes. It was best for Celebrian, too. And yet I won’t feel complete until we are a family again.”

“I feel exactly the same. I’ve been on my own for far too long, I would love to have a family again.” Maglor looked up at her, hopefully. “I hope I can be part of yours again, someday.”

“Hmph.” Galadriel lifted her chin and looked at him appraisingly. “Destroy Sauron first, my dear cousin. Then we’ll talk.”


	7. Weapons

After much fuss and annoyance, Aragorn and Gimli had been persuaded to hand over their weapons before entering King Theoden’s presence. Maglor, standing behind them, looked nearly as reluctant as his companions had.

“You too, Master Elf,” the guard said. “Disarm yourself, please.”

Obediently, Maglor unhooked his sword belt, tossing it and his twin blades on the table. “There you are. Disarmed.”

“I said all your weapons, sir,” ordered the guard. “Do you think I’m blind?”

With a sigh that sounded like a wave crashing on the shore, Maglor pulled several small knives out of the top of his boots and handed them over. The guard nodded.

“Thank you, sir. Now…”

“Hold on, just a moment. I’m not quite done.” Digging about in his pack, his pockets, and his sleeves, Maglor extracted two small silver whistles, several hair-thin harp strings, something that appeared to be a tuning fork, and an unidentifiable instrument shaped like an hourglass, which he passed to the bewildered guard. “You did say _all _my weapons.”

“Sir, most of these are musical instruments,” the guard said, frowning. “They are not weapons.”

Maglor looked mildly offended. “Well, not with _that _attitude.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but I can assure you, Mags still has at least two harmonicas up his sleeves that he neglected to hand over.


	8. Palantir

“My stars,” Maglor said quietly. “Is that what I think it is?”

“A palantir, yes,” said Gandalf, carefully inspecting the dark stone that Wormtongue had thrown out the window. “One of the seven lost seeing-stones, capable of…”

“Yes, yes, Mithrandir, I know perfectly well what a palantir is,” Maglor interrupted. “They’re only a bloody family heirloom. Damned useful, too, when your family is spread out over half the continent and letters take about a year to be delivered. I always did wonder what became of the old things.”

“So it is true,” Gandalf said in awe. “The palantiri were created by Feanor.”

Maglor snorted. “Of course they were. Who else do you think could have had the skill and motivation to make them? Father had seven children to keep track of, you know, and this was really the only sensible way to do it. May I?” He held out a hand, and after a moment’s hesitation Gandalf gave him the stone.

“So this belonged to one of your brothers?” Pippin asked eagerly. “Which one was it?”

“That is just what I am trying to find out.” Maglor turned the stone in his hands and sang a few quick words in an ancient dialect of Quenya (and of those assembled, only Gandalf was able to recognize that they meant “turn on, you dratted thing”). For a moment nothing happened at all, before the stone lit up with a crimson glow and emitted a vaguely exasperated-sounding noise. Maglor smiled with satisfaction as it faded back to black.

“Ah, just as I thought. This one was Caranthir’s,” he said. “He’s been gone for two ages and his palantir is still annoyed about people calling him. And, where is it…ah, just there, you see that crack?” He indicated a hairline fissure barely visible in the stone’s dark surface. “That right there is from when I was visiting Caranthir and we quarrelled, and he threw this at me. Fortunately I ducked out of the way, but I thought it was going to bring down the fortress when it hit the wall. It’s funny, you know, Father created these things to be indestructible but he really didn’t bank on the force of Caranthir’s temper.”

Pippin shook his head. “When Frodo and Bilbo are going on about the First Age one tends to imagine everyone being very solemn and dignified. Not going about chucking things at their brothers.”

Maglor smiled and patted Pippin on the head rather condescendingly. “Clearly, Mr. Took, you have been learning the wrong kind of history.”


	9. Favorites

“Ah! Master Faramir. Precisely who I wanted to see. Now, I hate to do this, young man,” Maglor said, “but I’m rather concerned about that father of yours. He doesn’t seem to be…entirely in his right mind, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

Granted, Faramir had had similar concerns about his father. But he certainly wasn’t going to allow Gandalf’s strange friend to cast aspersions on his family. “My father is a wise and hardworking man,” Faramir replied stiffly. “And it’s rather rich for someone from your family to go about criticizing other people’s fathers, don’t you think?”

Maglor pointed an accusing and rather unsteady finger at Faramir’s face (heavens, had he been _drinking_? Yes, that was certainly a wineglass in his other hand). “I object to that phraseology, my fine young friend. Feanor may have been unpredictable and temperamental, but he was a brilliant and loving father with the greatest regard for his children’s interests and talents. I remember once, when I was thirty, he…”

Sensing a rambling story on the way, Faramir tuned out, contemplating instead what exactly Gondor might be like with a king rather than a steward. In some ways it was a rather appealing thought.

“…and we had that royal edict framed and hung over the mantlepiece and for all I know it’s still there today,” Maglor finished. He looked at Faramir closely, face suddenly solemn. “Your father and mine do have something in common, though. Father didn’t exactly say it, but he had a favorite too.”

Faramir could feel his face turning red. Was it that obvious? “Oh, no, it’s just that Boromir and Father were so close, and I’m just…”

“Different? Not interested in the right sorts of things? Believe me, my lad, I know. It was the same in my family. Six perfectly clever and talented and _very _handsome boys and not one of us could hold a candle to Curufin. Father loved each and every one of us, but it was Curufin who took after him, and we were never allowed to forget it.”

“Ah.” Faramir swallowed hard. “And what did you do about it?”

Maglor shrugged. “What could I do? Nothing but be my brilliant and talented self. Which is precisely what you are going to do, of course. Now, have you got any more of this excellent wine lying about?”

Faramir couldn’t resist a grin. “Why don’t we head to the cellar and find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maglor= wine aunt


	10. Houses of Healing

“You look exhausted.”

Aragorn jerked back to his senses, forcing his drooping eyelids open. “Part and parcel of being a king. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, they say.”

“Well, I was only king for thirty years back in the First Age, but I certainly can’t disagree.” Maglor glanced down at the still, pale figure on the bed next to Aragorn. “How is your friend?”

“She is...stable. Ought to be mostly mended in a little over a week, if she can manage to stay off her feet that long.” Aragorn smiled fondly. “Knowing Eowyn, that will be a difficult proposition.”

Maglor laughed, dropping lightly into another chair. “I can’t say I know Eowyn well, but she certainly is a determined young woman. Reminds me a bit of my mother.” He reached out a tentative hand and patted Aragorn’s shoulder. “It’s good of you to look after her. Were she conscious I’m sure she would be very grateful.”

“It’s the least I can do. I feel...well, if you must know, I feel rather guilty. I couldn’t give her what she wanted from me, and it is difficult to forgive myself for that.”

“Guilt, war, a person you care about being badly injured...I must say, this is a situation I have been in before. And it’s never easy. But you are a good man, Aragorn. And Eowyn is lucky to have a friend like you.” 

Eowyn stirred in her sleep, letting out a groan of fear or pain, and Maglor and Aragorn both leaned forward in concern. 

“When one faces extraordinary evil and comes out the other side alive, it can sometimes be harder for the mind to heal than the body,” Maglor said thoughtfully. “I think I may be able to help her rest, if you’ll let me try.”

At Aragorn’s nod, Maglor placed a gentle hand on Eowyn’s arm, and began to sing.

Aragorn knew, by this point, how powerful Maglor’s voice could be. He’d heard the elf scream loud enough to stop an entire battalion of orcs in their tracks, after all. But this...this was different. He couldn’t quite understand the words to the song; they were in a dialect of Quenya somewhat different from what he had studied. But for long minutes, his mind was filled with visions of a sunlit meadow, a place of peace and healing.

It was almost unbearable when the song stopped.

“That,” Aragorn whispered at last. “That was…”

Maglor looked at him, and for a moment he looked thoroughly innocent, without a hint of darkness in his eyes. For only a second, of course, until the familiar look of exhaustion and vague cynicism returned to his face.

“Works every time,” he said briskly, rising from his seat. “Get some sleep, lad. You’ll need it.”


	11. Granddaughter

It took a bit of exploring—if someone didn’t want to be found, the palace in Minas Tirith offered plenty of good hiding spots—but after some strategic snooping Arwen finally discovered the person she was seeking, in a rather overgrown section of the palace gardens.

“Grandfather!”

“Arwen!” Maglor cried joyfully, leaping up from the bench on which he sat. He threw his arms around Arwen and pulled her into a tight hug, before leaning back to inspect her. “My goodness, don’t you look pretty. Spitting image of your parents. How are you feeling?”

“Brilliant,” Arwen replied. “After all, I have been waiting for this day for decades. Only...I am also a bit nervous, if I’m being completely honest.”

“Well, of course you are. Most young people are, just before their weddings. I remember, I myself…” Maglor grimaced in pain, shaking his head. “But we won’t talk about me. I hope you know that during the time I’ve spent with Aragorn I have been reminding him repeatedly about the proper way to treat my favorite granddaughter.”

Arwen laughed. “I’m your  _ only  _ granddaughter.”

“That you know of. Jokes aside, though, you’ve made a fine choice in husband. He’ll treat you right, and you’ll have a lovely family. I’m proud of you, my girl.”

“Thank you, Grandfather.” Arwen looked at Maglor with a slight frown. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are your plans now? I know Father is planning to go to Valinor, to reunite with Mother...will you be going with him?”

“That’s the current plan. If they let me on the boat,” Maglor added, sitting back down, “which is of course not entirely a given.”

Arwen sat down next to him, letting out a long sigh. “Just think. In not too very long, you’ll be in Valinor, and I’ll be human. Quite a change of pace for both of us.” She grinned, suddenly. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“When we  _ first  _ met? You must have been just a little girl then.”

“Yes, I was twelve. And you showed up to Imladris in the middle of winter, dressed like a beggar and smelling like wet dog, and Father said you were my grandfather and I was to be very polite to you and not ask you too many questions. And at the time, you know, I didn’t really see anything odd in having two grandfathers on Father’s side of the family. It took me years to realize you weren’t really my grandfather by blood.”

“Rather an odd family, we are. And yet I hope you know that I love you just as much as I would love my true granddaughter.”

“I  _ am  _ your true granddaughter, and Grandmother Galadriel can give me all the disapproving looks she likes, that will never change.” Arwen sighed again, and leaned against Maglor’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss you terribly, you know.”

“And I will miss you, my girl. But I believe...no, I  _ know  _ that you are making the right choice for yourself. You’ll be very happy.” Maglor patted her dark curls fondly. “And don’t worry about your father. I will look after him.”


	12. Journey Home

Frodo’s worries that he would have no one other than Bilbo and Elrond to talk to on the long voyage to Valinor were assuaged as he and the others made their way onto the upper deck and saw who was already there.

“You!” Frodo exclaimed.

“You!” Maglor replied, smiling broadly and looking about a millennium younger (was it possible, Frodo wondered, for Elves to age in reverse?). “You’ll be coming along then, will you? I must say, I am rather on the fence about this journey. The last time I was on a ship was a thoroughly unpleasant experience, but then those were…unusual circumstances. I don’t expect we’ll have nearly as much trouble this time.”

“If we do have any trouble, I am throwing you overboard immediately,” Cirdan grumbled. “Elrond, are you quite certain you have thought this through?”

“Absolutely,” Elrond said firmly. “And if the Valar have any issues with my father returning home after everything he’s helped us accomplish, they can have it out with me.”

Elrond and Cirdan ushered Bilbo down to his cabin, while Frodo remained on the deck, taking an awkward seat beside Maglor. The breeze whipped around them as the ship began to move away from shore, and Frodo suddenly found himself unaccountably nervous.

“Maglor,” he said. “What is Valinor like?”

“Well, you know, I haven’t been there in some time,” Maglor said thoughtfully. “But from what I recall, it is a thoroughly fine place. Pleasant weather, good food, kind people. You and your uncle will be given a hero’s welcome, I can almost guarantee.”

“And you? What kind of welcome will you get?”

“I rather imagine there will be a long line of people waiting to slap me! But I can’t say I mind that so very much. I don’t particularly care what sort of welcome the general public gives me, as long as I can see my family again.” His smile faded slightly as the reality of their destination seemed to sink in. “Frodo, do you think…do you think it will have been enough? Do I have any chance at all of being forgiven?”

“Oh, honestly, Maglor,” Frodo said, rolling his eyes. “You helped lead the armies of Gondor and Rohan against Sauron, and you certainly saved my neck a time or two. If your family isn’t inclined to forgive you, I’ll have words with them myself.”

“You Hobbits,” Maglor laughed. “You certainly are fiercer than your appearance suggests. But there is one person I don’t think you’ll be able to defend me from.”

“Who’s that?”

“My mother.” Maglor shook his head, pushing a few errant curls off his forehead. “She’s going to _kill _me for being gone so long.”


	13. Guess Who's Coming to Valinor

Frodo had agreed to accompany Maglor to his childhood home upon their arrival in Valinor, if only to serve as moral support (though, truth be told, he wasn’t really certain how much of that he could provide). And so, shortly after arriving in Aman and leaving Bilbo in Elrond’s capable care, Frodo accompanied his odd friend to the sprawling estate just outside Tirion that had once been home to the entire Feanorian family.

The door was flung open mere moments after Maglor’s tentative knock by a sturdy red-haired woman, who froze at the sight of Maglor, her mouth hanging open slightly.

“Hello, Mother,” Maglor said softly. “Can we come in?”

–

“After all this time,” said Nerdanel, shaking her head. She spoke slowly and clearly, out of respect for Frodo’s schoolboy Quenya, but one couldn’t miss the emotion in her voice. “I was beginning to think I would never see you again."

"I really am sorry, Mother," Maglor said, face flushed with embarrassment. "I was sulking like an adolescent boy and hiding from my responsibilities, I see that now. But at the time, you know, it seemed like the only possible solution to everyone's problems was for me to disappear."

"You always were too dramatic for your own good." Nerdanel smiled, and turned to Frodo. "I think I owe you my gratitude, Mr. Baggins…if it weren’t for you, my son might never have come home.”

Frodo blushed. “I don’t think I can take much credit, Lady Nerdanel.”

“I’ve never liked formality, Mr. Baggins. Just Nerdanel will be perfectly fine. And you can and will take credit, because you are, from what I hear, a hero. And you helped my son get home.”

“Have any of the others come back yet, Mother?” Maglor asked. He gripped the arm of his chair tightly, as if unsure that he wanted to know.

“Not yet,” Nerdanel said sadly. “But now that you’ve come home, I don’t expect it will take long.”

“Good. I’d like you to meet the rest of the family, Frodo, they are almost certainly going to…”

Maglor trailed off as another woman entered the room…this one short and slender, with strawberry-blonde plaits and a severe frown.

“Well! Look who’s back!” she said.

Maglor went, if possible, even paler than he had gone when he saw his mother. “Ah. Hello, Andril.”

“Hello yourself,” the woman replied, her stern expression budging not one bit. “Didn’t think to give me any kind of warning, did you, that you were coming back? Not even a hint?”

“Be reasonable, darling, I was on the wrong side of the Sundering Sea,” Maglor said pleadingly. “It isn’t so easy, sending communiqués across that sort of distance.”

“Wait a moment,” said Frodo. He glanced up in confusion at Maglor. “Darling?”

Maglor sighed. “Indeed so. Frodo Baggins, allow me to introduce my…wife. Andril.”

“You’re married?”

“He was,” Andril replied, shooting Maglor a sharp look. “Whether he still is remains to be seen. More than six thousand years, Makalaure! Three Ages! What have you been doing this entire time?”

“If you must know,” Maglor said stiffly, “I was attempting to make up for my many crimes. Being a good person for once in my life, you know.”

“Hmm.” Andril looked her husband up and down critically. “Well, I will admit, you’re as good-looking as you ever were. Which is the only reason I married you, of course.”

“Naturally.”

“But as your lawfully wedded wife, I’d say you’ve got a great deal more to make up for than just a few crimes.” She took a step closer and seized Maglor’s collar. “A lot more, if you get my drift.”

Maglor swallowed hard. “Understood, darling. Shall we head upstairs and…talk?”

“Yes,” said Andril. “Yes, I think we shall. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Baggins. Excuse us, won’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, she firmly took Maglor’s arm and marched him out of the room, leaving Frodo and Nerdanel in slightly uncomfortable silence.

“Well!” Nerdanel said briskly after a moment. “We shan’t be seeing them for a few hours. Or days. More tea, my dear?”


	14. Epilogue: The Boys are Back in Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, when I say a story is over, you probably shouldn't take me seriously because I am usually lying.

_ Dear Frodo, _

_ I’m terribly sorry that it has been so long since we’ve spoken. I would try and explain myself, but I really have no good excuse, except that when I am around my family I tend to forget the rest of the world exists. Which explains a lot, I suppose. Anyway, I trust that you and your uncle are settling in well to Elrond’s house and have been thoroughly enjoying all the pleasures Valinor offers. _

_ The real reason I am writing, however, is that I must ask a favor of you. I have received word from the Valar that my two youngest brothers are soon to be re-embodied, and I worry that with only Mother, myself and Andril out here things may be too isolated and quiet for their comfort. They were always rather sociable lads and I believe they would enjoy your company a great deal. And of course all of us would love to see you again. _

_ Yours sincerely, _

_ Maglor _

_ Dear Bilbo, _

_ Well, you have certainly missed one of the oddest house-parties I have ever attended. Though when two of the guests have recently returned from the dead I suppose that is to be expected. _

_ The two youngest Feanorians—I will refer to them by their Sindarin names, Amrod and Amras, for the sake of clarity—are very nearly identical; both rather short, for Noldor, and with red hair and Maglor’s eyes. Maglor says that they were thoroughly mischievous as children and very charming as adults, but they were both rather quiet and subdued when we were introduced. They listened very politely to my story and said almost nothing on the subject of the Halls of Mandos, much to my disappointment. _

_ Maglor is convinced they will be back to their old cheerful selves soon; after all, he says, he’s improved in leaps and bounds since he joined the Fellowship. I suppose millenia of death and/or solitude will alter one’s personality somewhat; I often wonder, if I traveled back in time and met Maglor before the First Age, if I would recognize him at all. _

_ I trust Elrond knows he is under strict orders to come to the next Feanorian family gathering. _

_ All my love,  _

_ Frodo _

  
  


_ Dear Bilbo, _

_ Your “I am far too old to travel” excuse is wearing rather thin, I must say. I should think you of all people, as a historian, would be fascinated to meet some of the First Age’s most controversial figures. Still, at least Elrond was along this time, as I’m not sure I would have enjoyed this visit nearly as much without him. _

_ Morifinwe Carnistir—or Caranthir, as we know him—is precisely as he has been depicted in every tale. Dark-haired, irritable, and usually turning red from annoyance. He does not seem to have much use for Hobbits, particularly after I explained that no, we are not a subspecies of Dwarves. He spent most of dinner sitting in stony silence, while the twins, who seem to be regaining some of their old good cheer, told an assortment of jokes that make absolutely no sense when translated from Quenya. _

_ Something rather odd did happen after dinner, however. We gathered in the parlor for a bit of music (all Elves can sing, even formerly deceased ones, of course) and Maglor pulled out his old fiddle—the one he says he has had since the Second Age, do you remember? I’m astonished it’s lasted this long. Anyway, he started singing one of those songs of his, the kind that is so beautiful it’s sad or so sad it’s beautiful, one of the two, and to my very great astonishment Caranthir burst into tears halfway through. Absolutely bawling, to the point where he temporarily had to leave the room. He returned a few minutes later, though, irritable as ever, and nothing more was said about the incident. _

_ What an odd family this is. _

_ Love, _

_ Frodo _

  
  


_ Dear Maglor, _

_ It was, once again, very kind for you to invite us. And I should note that I generally have no objection to dogs; in the right circumstances I am very fond of them. My reaction to your brother’s dog was caused by the fact that he is approximately three times my size and strongly resembles a wolf. I don’t think it was entirely necessary for your brother to tell me to “buck up” in that tone, but otherwise I enjoyed my visit. And of course I understand that Celegorm must be in high spirits, being allowed to return at the same time as his beloved dog. _

_ May I ask you a rather personal question about your brother Curufin, however? Forgive me if it’s rude, I am very tired. You’ve told me that he almost exactly resembles your father both in looks and personality. Did your father also feel the need to correct everyone’s grammar twice a minute? _

_ Yours respectfully, _

_ Frodo _

_ Dear Frodo, _

_ Celegorm is a boor, his dog is a thoroughly uncivilized beast, and Father was worse than Curufin when it came to correcting people’s speech. I have given them both a good talking-to and hopefully they will behave better next time. _

_ —Maglor _

_ Dear Mr. Baggins, _

_ I am writing, first of all, to thank you. Mother has made it very clear how instrumental you were in helping my younger brother return home, and for that I owe you my undying gratitude. _

_ I would also like to apologize for my rather standoffish behavior during your visit last week. You must think I am an extremely rude person, which I suppose I am. However, I hope you will give me the chance to explain myself. _

_ I have been physically dead for over six thousand years, and spent a considerable amount of time before that in what I can only describe as a sort of living death. I had long ago given up hope of experiencing any kind of happiness again. And so to return from the Halls to find my brothers re-embodied and Maglor returned from Middle-Earth was roughly equivalent to a starving man attempting to eat an entire banquet. Overwhelming, is the word I am looking for. Too much happiness can feel like suffering, sometimes. _

_ At least to me, but then again I am quite thoroughly mad, I have been told. _

_ Incidentally, congratulations on your defeat of Sauron. Perhaps you didn’t know this, but I was the one who first gave him that name. One of the few productive things I accomplished in my time in Middle-Earth. I’m rather proud of it. _

_ I look forward to the next time we meet, and hope our conversations will be much better. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Maedhros _

  
  


_ Dear  _ <strike> _ Sir  _ </strike> _ Maedhros, _

_ You have nothing whatsoever to apologize for. It was an honor to meet you and I am pleased that you finally have a chance to reunite with your family and find healing. _

_ If, however, you would like to make a better second impression, you are always welcome to visit Elrond’s house, where I am currently staying. My uncle Bilbo is extremely eager to meet you, and pepper you with highly inappropriate questions. _

_ —Frodo _


End file.
